Interlude
by roawan
Summary: The night before they leave for the final battle in Denerim, Theron faces the truth of his own death and receives comfort from the last place he'd thought to look: the stranger who had brought about this conflict in the first place. m!MaharielxRiordan m/m, non-explicit. Mention of one-sided m!MaharielxAlistair


The keep was not silent, even at this time of night. Preparations for war; the army marched in the morning, a desperate gamble to reach Denerim in time to save anything. Anything at all. And an archdemon; he winced away from that thought, restlessly moving his hand through his hair. He couldn't think about it. Not now, even now…he closed his eyes a moment, his breath hissing in his teeth.

He was having second thoughts, a long way too late. Morrigan's face, when she'd left him. So angry, so cold. He could have, should have…but even in the miasma of guilt and fear, he knew he'd made the right choice. To create a child with the soul of an old god…he knew better than to trust Morrigan's blithe assurances about the child not being evil. She had a plan, her and her damnable mother.

May they both rot in hell.

But the decision had been made. Someone was going to die tomorrow. Riordan had told them that he planned it to be him. The guilt twisted inside of him again, sharp and bitter. He could have saved the older man.

He could have saved himself.

He closed his eyes, trying to summon up a sense of calm. Of acceptance. Wasn't that how you were supposed to feel? Uplifted, calm, knowing you were going to die but sure it was for a good cause. For the only cause. Yet he couldn't feel calm, or accept the fact of death. Not like this. In the dark of the night, he could not face the truth of his own extinction.

He'd dealt enough death, with his own two hands, with sword and bow. Even before the taint, before the blight. He and Tamlen had killed untold number of shemlen intruders. He'd been slaughtering darkspawn right and left, and along the way he'd killed his fair share of dwarves, of shemlen, of anything that crossed his path. Even a few of his own people, when they'd not given him any other option. He'd given death countless times, but to accept it for himself?

Not the same. Leaning out of his window, he tried to suck in a deep breath of night air, but his lungs felt heavy and solid. Too heavy to breathe, too much air, not enough…he didn't know for sure.

"You should be asleep." The quiet voice behind him startled him. He hadn't heard the other man coming, and that was bad. Was he losing his edge? No…worse than that. He was just going insane. The appearance of the older Warden in his room had a strange, dull feeling, like something ordained. He couldn't even dredge up any indignation that the lock on his door had apparently not been any kind of deterrent. Then again, in the state he was in, he couldn't guarantee he'd locked it, either.

"I..can't." He said slowly, after a moment, his voice soft, lifeless. "I just…"

"Don't worry about it so much." The other Warden moved to stand next to him, his dark eyes scanning the horizon. "I told you before…" He trailed off, his eyes flicking restlessly over the rooftops, before coming to rest on Theron. There was humor there, and damn the man, the calm acceptance that Theron was struggling to find. "I am dying anyway. It is fitting that I should die defeating the Archdemon, if it is possible."

"We're all dying." Theron blurted out, angry, shocked at his anger. "Ever since we drank the cup, we're all dying…" or, in his case, since he'd watched Tamlen touch that mirror.

"Yes." Riordan said simply, his eyes moving over Theron's face slowly. His thoughts were hidden from the agitated Dalish, but there was a gleam that could have been sympathy in his eyes. Maybe. "It's what we do." He shrugged, but continued to study Theron's face, seeking something. The scrutiny hurt Theron in a way he couldn't define, and it tore him in half. Part of him wanted to turn away, and part of him wanted to pour himself at the other man's feet. To what? Beg forgiveness? They did what they had to do. Wasn't that the unofficial Grey Warden's motto? Still. Riordan was still looking at him, still searching him, and Theron sighed.

"If it's not you…" Theron said slowly, unwillingly, the truth being tugged out of him by that sharp, knowing but somehow understanding gaze. "If it's not you, it's me." He'd made that decision already. The only thing about this that he could think with no guilt, no fear, no hesitation…and no anger. "I won't let it be him. He's…." he paused, aware that he was on the brink of admitting…he pulled back, hastily, tying to slam his defenses back into place. "They need him, after. To be the king, to continue the line. To bring peace. So…not him. Even if I have to knock him unconscious, it won't be Alistair."

Riordan continued to stare at him; uneasy now, exposed more than he'd anticipated, Theron turned his face away from the Orlesian, shifting his shoulders in irritation. How long before they left? An hour? Five hours? He'd lost track of time, lost track of everything. It didn't matter anyway. He was packed and ready to go.

"You love him."

The words were calm, stated with certainty, and they shocked Theron. Stiffening, he felt his fists balling in an automatic reaction to danger-fightkillpunchescapefight-and he had to literally force himself to calm, to breathe. Riordan didn't move, but a part of Theron sensed that Riordan was quite aware of his reaction and…approved? That was the feeling he got. He could have been imagining it, hoping for it.

Then again, a Grey Warden who reacted slowly to danger would quickly be a dead Warden.

He thought about denying it. He really did. It wasn't any of Riordan's business. It wasn't anything that would interfere. But it was a pain he'd carried for too long, alone, silent, and the invitation to discuss it was…tempting. To pour it out, just this once and never again, to speak the words aloud.

He found himself nervous. Flicking his tongue over his lips, he let his body relax the rest of the way, feeling the way the tension left him shaking. Finally, gathering up his courage, he nodded, stiffly. "Yes."

Riordan's sigh was soft and meaningless-it carried nothing, not even a hint, and could have simply been the release of air. The silence hung between them and Theron felt himself drawn again, urged to fill it.

"It doesn't matter." The words were flat, tired, stripped of emotion. "It really doesn't. He's thick as a brick; he'd not realize what was happening if I stripped naked and crawled into his tent. And that's good. He's going to be the king, if he survives. He's going to marry and produce an heir and rule Ferelden. That's all right and proper. So it really doesn't matter, except that I have to make sure he's still alive to do it, after…" He trailed off, his eyes sliding shut.

"What if you both survive?" Riordan asked, as casually as if they were discussing the results of an honor-duel. As if life and death didn't hang in the balance, as if the end of the world as they knew it wasn't a heartbeat away.

"It still doesn't matter." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Theron felt it. That calm he'd been searching for so desperately settled over him like a cloud. And that was the key, he realized suddenly. Desperation; it had kept him from seeing. But this numbness, this stillness…it would serve him. If he could keep it. If the other man let him keep it. He sensed, in Riordan, the ability to tear it away from him. Danger. Why was the other Warden so suddenly full of danger? Ah, but to face danger…head on, face-front. That was the Grey Warden way. A test, then, perhaps. He was so tired of tests, but he sensed that this was one he didn't dare loose.

Turning towards Riordan, he smiled, humorlessly, a stretching of the lips. "All the above, with the addendum that I leave to do whatever my own life holds. The Ferelden Wardens need to be rebuilt. We have Soldier's Peak now. I'd simply…go on living, until the Call and the Deep Roads…"

"That is the end of all Grey Wardens." Riordan's voice was quiet and deep, and for a moment, Theron was pulled from his own misery and confusion to the other man's, seeing then the mirror of what he would be, some day, if he lived. A man full of nightmares, a man facing the endless deep and the knowledge that you just had to die fast enough not to succumb to the taint, if you just kept on killing and killing…

Each at their own ends, facing the darkness of the future. No hope, really. One way or the other, now or later, no hope. That was the real price of being a Grey Warden. To give up your hope, to take in a certainty. This was the test, then. The moment of truth, revealed. Or perhaps, even at this end, it wasn't a test at all, but a sharing? Perhaps Riordan's burdens were weighing on him, and with his friends distant and his back exposed. He is going to die. Not later, not next month or next year, but possibly tomorrow.

He wears his calmness like a cloak, but what is underneath? Theron couldn't see it, but he could feel it, and it tore through his defenses like an Antivan knife.

Without realizing what he was doing, without allowing himself to analyze it, Theron found himself in Riordan's arms, his lips crushed against the older man's. Hands on his back pulling him, tugging him, guiding him. There was hunger and heat and a strange, rough tenderness, wrapped in desperation and need and fear. Theron was lost to reason, and it was good, so good. Riordan's body against his, Riordan pressing inside of him, touching him, kissing him, whispering to him. The words were lost, meaningless, the voice the important part, burning through him, burning away the pain. It felt like it lasted forever. It felt like they died and were reborn, and when it was over, when they lay panting together, their bodies trembling and covered in sweat, it was safe and good and all the things that Theron hadn't had for nearly a year now. Not since the last time he'd lain in Tamlen's arms, the night before his world had shattered and fallen apart into razor-sharp pieces of regret and duty.

Riordan sighed, finally, and Theron felt the other Warden's fingers combing through his hair, an oddly reassuring touch. "Sleep." Riordan said softly. "There will be no nightmares tonight. This I can give you, if nothing else." His words were heavy, laden with guilt and regret. "Sleep."

Theron wanted to fight it, to talk, to sort through his emotions. But the command in Riordan's voice would not be denied. He sighed and turned his face into the other man's neck, closing his eyes, and slipped into the Fade.

Riordan was right; there was no nightmare, but a dream. He was held by a man whose face flickered in and out of existence, past memories, future dreams, and current reality. It didn't matter, except that he was held, and safe, and loved, and when he woke in the morning, still cradled in Riordan's arms, his pain and uncertainty was gone. The calm he'd sought had come at last.

He would face his death and he would accept it. And perhaps, in doing so, he would find forgiveness for all he'd done.


End file.
